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When Warren Zevon announced that he was dying of cancer, I planned on writing him a letter.  Nothing really too special, just to say that I was a fan, and that I loved what he created with his life, and that it meant something to me.  I didn’t, and he’s dead now. I can only imagine that fame does weird things to your perspective.  Robin Williams has existed in my life since childhood, and though I’ve never been an extreme fan, or even felt inclined to call myself a fan, he made me laugh, cry, and feel emotion.  It’s strange that someone can have an impact on people that they’ll almost certainly never meet, and will only know that they exist in the most abstract sense. It’s easy to forget that celebrities are people.  As lame as it is to see someone else’s death being about you, I wish I’d taken a moment to just say thank you.  Took him for granted, and though I was never a fanatic fan, he meant much, much more to me than 10 minutes and a stamp.

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It's easy when considering an ideal partner to get caught up in peculiar standards.  They seem absolutely non-negotiable, until you meet someone who doesn't pass the test but supersedes it, creating a new benchmark that all others fail just because they aren't her.

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I was dating this girl who worked at a coffee shop, and I once spent 15 minutes spelling out my first initial on her chest in hickies.  She wore turtlenecks for a few days, until she realized that she didn't care.  She was wearing a low-cut shirt at work and these cops came in and asked her, "Hey, who gave ya all the red?"

She thought that they were talking about her freshly dyed hair, so she giggled and said, "Tee hee, it changes on a regular basis."

She didn't get until after I filled her in later when she told me.  She was mortified.  I thought that it was hilarious.  I still do, actually.

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Instagram might be the expected medium for taking pictures of your lunch, but renegades go straight to Tumblr.

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All Things That I Won't Do For Free

1. Play the song I played two songs ago. 2. Play the song I played three songs ago. 3. Cut the song that's playing after 20 seconds to play the song I played five songs ago.

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30 seconds into "Make Tha Trap Say Aye"

Customer: Hey man, I don't know what you think you're doing, but nobody likes this OJ Da Juiceman shit.

Me: (Points to dancer twerking on another customer with her hands in the air and eyes closed) Well, she does. It's on her playlist. She dances to it. She's dancing to it right now. So.

Customer: Yeah, I don't know how long you've been doing this, but you need to play new stuff. Lil Wayne, Future, can you do that for me?

Me: I'll see what I can do.

Customer: Come on, man. Lil Wayne, Future.

Me: You know, for future reference, if you want me to do you a favor, don't start by insulting me.

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It's early, but this will probably end up being the best song sequence of the night

"Slangin Birds" - 2 Chainz. Basically no one likes this song, but it works to set the mood in ways no one realizes. Let it terminate to silence but for your voice.

"Pure Cocaine" - Yo Gotti ft. Gucci Mane and Young Money. Slows it down, yeah, but if you’ve read the crowd right, the Johnny Depp sample at the opening pumps up the crowd.

"Birds" - Migos. Let "Pure Cocaine" end on its own, but start "Birds" so that the eagle/falcon/whatever sounds play during the end, still leaving enough of a gap before it’s obvious you’re playing Migos. It takes the inner excitement made from "Pure Cocaine" and gives it a chance to vent, and the obvious cocaine/birds thing connects the songs.

"Special" - Future ft. Young Scooter. I slowed it down a bit with this, but you can really go anywhere from "Birds."

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Close enough.

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My face when I make everyone listen to Plies’s “Pretty Pussy” for what feels like the millionth time.

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Can someone with more time make Costanchainz a thing?

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A dancer is practicing on the stage when a customer comes in. He takes a seat, and she wanders off and sits at the bar. She’s at the top of the list, so I play a song and call her standby.

I call her onstage and play “Pills and Potions,” because she has just the name Nicki Minaj on her playlist. She comes to the booth and asks if I expect her to dance to this, and if I can play “Beez in the Trap.” I say yes, she goes on stage for 20 seconds, then goes back to the bar and sits down.

I play “Beez in the Trap” and call her onstage again. She goes, dances for a minute and then goes and sits down again.

I stare daggers until I change the song and say, “Keeping it going into round number two. Lavender. Wooorkin’ it on. . stage number two… Juicy, stand by.”

She wanders back onstage.

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As I'm playing "Part II (On The Run)" by Jay Z and Beyoncé, I'm fully realizing that you can tell a lot about a person by which part they sing along to.

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As groups, men are taller than women.  I'm almost exactly average height for a man.  I'm taller than most women, shorter than a lot of guys, and shorter than some women. 

Reading that men are taller than women doesn't make me any taller, and if reading that your racial group is statistically more intelligent doesn't make you smarter.  Thinking that it does means that you're pretty dumb, though.

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The night's damage.

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Okay. There’s a dancer here named Got Milk. I’ll be saying that on the mic all night.

What a time to be alive.

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Bad Dream

I dreamed last night that I killed a duck. It wasn’t the main focus of the dream, and no one really wanted the duck dead. I was with some people (including Laura), we had a duck with us, and it was sort of like when you’re drinking something and going into a store that has a sign saying “No Food or Drink,” and you have to finish it outside. So I strangled the duck. I had it gripped at my hip like a shotgun, with its wings braced between my right arm and my body, my left hand in front of me, squeezing its neck. It thrashed, and I gripped tighter. I was much larger, and, from its perspective, impossibly strong. It couldn’t get away; it was going to die. I thought about how terrible it must feel. To be captured, trapped, in the agony of slow suffocation like the worst of drug withdrawal condensed into 90 seconds, and then you’re dead. I thought about loosening my grip, letting him breathe for a second, and knowing that, like an addict crying out for “one last shot,” that fresh air shooting in would be the most glorious feeling a being could experience. I didn’t. After all, I’d just clamp down again, and we’d have to start the process all over again. As either ineffective resistance or an involuntary movement from the pain, his feet started paddling frantically, like he was trying to swim away. Did you know that the term for a group of ducks is “paddling?” A paddling of ducks? What a way to go.